


Wrong

by Capella (Caprina)



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:10:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caprina/pseuds/Capella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he even knows what wrong is any more, he sure as hell doesn’t care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006, a prompt challenge leading to a pairing I never thought I'd write...
> 
> Thanks to Elfscribe, as ever.

Welsh calls it playing to their strengths.

“Look at it this way, detective: if I wanted a salesman or a bookie, perhaps even a Catholic priest, then I would be asking Vecchio. But this job has your name written all over it.”

Ray glares back at him. There’s nothing to beat being the resident freak.

“You know the club scene, you’re a little more open minded than some of your colleagues, and you can dance, which has to help,” Welsh goes on.

“Open minded, right,” Ray stalls. “I don’t have a problem with it in that way. But see, I don’t feel comfortable with the role, and if I’m not comfortable, I don’t see how I’m going to be, er, convincing.” 

“Detective Kowalski.” Welsh sounds dangerously calm now, enough that Vecchio’s grinning across at Ray, wondering how far he’s going to push it. “I’m not asking you to convince me that you’re a woman, just a regular guy who happens to enjoy spending his Friday nights dressed in skirts and heels. Do you think, in the interests of our continuing professional relationship, that you could manage that?”

“It just feels wrong-”

“What’s the matter?” Vecchio murmurs, smirking. “Worried you’ve not got the legs for it?”

Ray opens his mouth to tell Vecchio that if he’s so fucking thrilled with the whole idea perhaps he should be volunteering, but Welsh gets in first.

“Let me make this very clear, detectives. I’ve got one dead body downstairs and one in a long-term coma over at Northwestern Memorial, and we still don’t even know how they took the stuff, let alone who fed it to them. Spiked drinks, bad drugs, who knows, and nobody’s talking. Now these guys might be out there leading their alternative lifestyles, but they deserve our protection as much as any other citizen of this town. Furthermore, one more case, somebody spots the pattern and we’ve got Feds crawling all over us like flies on a dung-heap, and that is a situation I would very much like to avoid. Am I making myself understood?”

Ray stares at the far wall, doesn’t need to look at Vecchio to know he’s doing the same. “Yes, Sir.”

“Right.” Welsh taps his pen against the desktop. “Kowalski, Mitchison’s fixed you up with a contact. You go with him this afternoon, get yourself kitted out. Vecchio, by the end of this shift you will have studied the files and you will know everything there is to know about this case: every name, every venue, every potential witness. Tonight, Lady Lucy’s. Tomorrow, Cruise. The next night, wherever the hell it is that these people are meeting. I want you in there, getting yourself known, and I want some answers before we end up with another body on our hands. Don’t touch a drink unless the bottle’s opened in front of you. And Vecchio, you watch him every step of the way. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

That’s the cherry on top, really. Ray’s about to humiliate himself completely and Vecchio’s guaranteed a ringside seat for the whole freaking show. He ought to have a sign over his head, in red neon, saying, My Life Sucks.

********************

 

Ray draws the line at waxing. Lana (six-two and bulky, a construction worker named Michael by day) tuts and clucks, but finally agrees that Ray needs to feel at home in his outfit or he’s never going to blend in. They compromise on black: skirt below the knee, thick nylons and pointed boots with a low heel. Not too much padding, long tight sleeves (“You’re so lucky to have such slender arms, dear,”) and plenty of heavy silver jewellery on his wrists and fingers. The make-up takes him back to the early eighties, and the wig’s a goth-glam treat - big, messy hair in a tangle of scarlet and dark blonde to his shoulders. The overall effect is more Bangles than Beauty Queen, but at least you can still see he’s got attitude. 

When he opens the door to Vecchio, he knows he’s judged it right. He’d been expecting laughter, but what he gets is an open-mouthed stare and Vecchio speechless for all of ten seconds before he manages, “Jesus, Kowalski.”

“Rachel,” Ray says, “Ms. Lucas to you until we know each other better. Come on then, pitter patter, Lana’s expecting me at ten thirty.” He sets off towards the car with his purse (black mock croc on a thick silver chain) swinging, and Vecchio trails behind, out of words again, which is one good thing to come out of this whole fiasco. 

In the car Vecchio fills him in on the afternoon’s reading, which doesn’t take long, and then they’re silent. Ray carefully watches the road ahead, but he’s aware of Vecchio darting glances at him every few seconds like he can’t stop himself. 

He wonders if it’s freaking Vecchio out, good Catholic family man that he is. It’s not like this is the first time his partner’s worn drag. Ray heard the story from Fraser, and he’s pretty sure Vecchio’s thinking about that other time right now, probably wants to say something about it, but knows that if he does Ray’ll be out of the car at the next stoplight. 

They spend a lot of time not talking about Fraser. Several hours a day, on average.

When Vecchio washed up at the 2-7, Ray’d already been back for a year - tired of waiting for something impossible to happen up in the Great White North, he’d had nowhere else to go. Welsh had read Vecchio’s medical clearance carefully and made partnering Ray a condition of his return, saying the division wasn’t big enough for two lone wolves. Crazy as it seemed, it was a good decision. Pairing up with Canada’s answer to Superman has apparently ruined them both for other partners (just like Stella’s ruined them for other women, and that’s the other thing they don’t talk about), but it prepared them for each other, like players who’ve worked with the same coach and can read each other’s moves right from the first game. They fight all the time but their solve rate is one of the highest in the district and there are moments when the job is almost fun again. 

Not that he’ll ever admit as much to Vecchio.

Ray turns to look at Vecchio and catches him staring again. It’s starting to piss him off.

“Look, Vecchio, you better remember that we’re both players here, and that means we’ve both got issues. So I’m all dressed up and ready to go because I need to explore my, er, feminine side. What’s your deal?”

Vecchio gazes out through the windscreen. “Me? I’m just a lonely guy who’s through with women, but not quite ready to give up on the glamour yet.”

“Shit! Where did that come from?”

“Just going with what I know. Playing to my strengths.”

There’s nothing Ray can say to that, so he turns back to the window and starts thinking himself into Rachel Lucas’s head.

Vecchio parks a couple of streets over from the club and twists around to rummage in the back seat while Ray checks his hair in the mirror.

“Here,” Vecchio says, handing him a big paper sack. It weighs almost nothing. “At least you got the colour right.”

“What the-” Ray pulls the thing out and spreads it between his hands. It stretches nearly five feet, a froth of long black feathers, silky and fragile.

“It’s from Frannie, for good luck. Genuine ostrich, she says.”

“You told Frannie? What the fuck were you thinking?”

Vecchio shrugs. “She was impressed. Says if you need any advice you’re to call her, and if you come over for dinner one night dressed in drag, she’ll cook for you herself.”

“Jesus Christ, Vecchio! I cannot believe you did this to me. Are you trying to ruin my life?”

“You’re only doing your job.” Vecchio manages to make it sound like an insult. “Come on, put the thing on, your friend Lana will be waiting.”

********************

 

Ray’s feet are killing him and he’s desperate for a beer, but he’s got an idea it would be out of character. Instead, he’s had a couple of glasses from the bottle of pink champagne Vecchio sent over to their table (this being the classy end of the cross-dressing scene - at Cruise it’ll be cheap wine in plastic cups and disco music so loud it makes your teeth hurt.) Ray’s going to give Vecchio some serious grief for the champagne, later. It’s left him jittery, not mellow like a real drink should, but at least the rest of the girls appreciated it.

Lana and her (his?) friends turned out to be surprisingly easy company. They’re quick and funny, all good-natured bitching and sly self-mockery. There was a lot of talk earlier on about shoes and beauty treatments, but Ray just let the flow take him, listening hard and speaking when he couldn’t avoid it. Before long he was laughing with the others, and though he’s learned nothing directly relevant to the case he’s pretty sure his cover’s solid. 

The bad news is, the guy sliding into the seat next to him now could blow the whole thing wide open. It’s the third time he’s been across to pester Ray, and he doesn’t seem to hear when Ray says no. How much of a dent would he put in his image if he landed a punch on the guy’s sweaty jaw? If Lana was here instead of over at the bar, Ray would ask. 

“So, beautiful, you ready to dance with me yet?” The guy’s voice is as greasy as his hair, an ugly comb-over job that’s obviously dyed.

“Like I told you before,” Ray says, clenching a fist under the table, “I’m not dancing.”

“How about a little walk outside, get to know each other better? Sure is hot in here.” He manages to get all sorts of emphasis on the word hot. Ray wants to puke.

“No, like I said, I’m quite happy here.” Ray turns his attention to his purse, but the guy doesn’t get the message. He’s sliding closer, and suddenly his hand is on Ray’s knee. 

Ray freezes. This is it, fuck the cover, the slimeball shifts that hand by a quarter inch and he’s going to get what he deserves -

“Hey, pal. When the lady says no, she means no.” Vecchio’s fingers are curled over the shoulder of the guy’s cheap polyester suit. It looks like he’s had a manicure. How come Ray’s the one wearing the dress? 

“Time for you to take a hike, my friend. You know you’re not wanted here.” Vecchio’s voice is dark, he’s doing that thing where he turns on the Bookman and only a fool would challenge him. 

Greasy guy has suddenly recovered his hearing. He’s out of the booth in a moment and slithering off towards the bar, glancing back nervously like he’s afraid Vecchio might be following him.

“You okay?” There’s a smile in Vecchio’s voice, but he’s not laughing at Ray.

“Yeah, thanks, I was about to get all unladylike there,” Ray mutters.

Vecchio leans down close. His cologne smells good, an expensive scent Ray recognises but couldn’t put a name to. “Dance with me?” he says quietly.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“We can talk.” Vecchio jerks his head towards the bar, where Lana’s counting her change.

Could it get any crazier? The lights will be coming up soon and they’re on to the slow stuff. Three Times a Lady is playing, which doesn't seem at all funny to Ray. But Vecchio’s keen to tell him something so he nods, eases himself out of the booth and smoothes his skirt. 

“It’s fine,” Vecchio assures him, extending an arm. “Come on.”

With the boots, Ray’s a couple of inches taller than Vecchio, so it ought to feel more ridiculous than it does. He assumes they’ll keep their distance, but it seems like Vecchio has other ideas. A hand at Ray’s waist pulls him nearer, and after a moment Ray brings his arms up, drapes them around Vecchio’s neck. It’s not so much dancing as swaying on the spot, the classic slow number, but at least Vecchio’s got the rhythm right and he’s strangely confident, almost like he’s enjoying it. He’s speaking into the feathers at Ray’s neck, and Ray can feel the warmth of his breath. 

“You looked good,” Vecchio says, and pauses just long enough for Ray to wonder if he heard right. “Over there, I mean, with the others. Like you fit in.”

“Yeah.” Ray’s trying to concentrate on keeping up the act without getting too close. Vecchio’s scent is all around him, and the heavy grey silk feels cool under his fingers. “I think it’s going okay. Got some friends at Cruise tomorrow night, at least.”

“You got anything else?”

“Besides some make-up tips from Babs, and Darlene’s suggestion that I try hold-up stockings? No. You?”

“I’m not sure. See the grey-haired guy at the bar? Green jacket?” Vecchio turns them round as he speaks to give Ray a better view. There are half a dozen men up at the bar as there have been all night, drinking steadily and watching the action quite openly. Green Jacket is over by the door.

“Yeah, I see him. He up to something?”

“Just here for the free show like the rest of them. But I got a feeling I’ve seen his nose before. Like on a mugshot.”

“His nose? Jesus!” Ray hisses, but he’s grinning. Dancing with Vecchio might be all kinds of weird, but this, at least, is familiar.

“Yeah, well, it’s more of a lead than your stockings. Get a good look - as good as you can, given that you’re half blind - and we’ll try for a match in the morning.”

Ray peers over Vecchio’s shoulder, trying to memorise the face. It’s broad and unimpressive, no distinguishing features. If Vecchio really can ID the nose, they’ll be lucky.

He’s still staring at the guy when someone crashes into him from the side, a six foot blonde in sequins and spike heels who slurs, “Sorry, darling,” before veering off towards the restrooms. Ray’s foot turns under him and he pitches forward into Vecchio, who tightens his hold reflexively and steadies Ray against him.

It should feel wrong. The stupid false breasts are jammed into his chest right over his thumping heart, but everywhere else it’s Vecchio pressing against him, warm and firm and showing no sign of pulling away. Ray’s aware of the pain in his ankle and all he can think is that it should feel wrong, but for a moment he can’t even bring himself to move.

It’s Vecchio who steps back, taking one hand from Ray’s waist to grab hold of his arm. “You okay? Can you stand on it?”

“It’s just twisted, nothing serious,” Ray says, making a show of reaching down to rub his ankle, because anything’s better than letting Vecchio see his face right now.

“I think it’s time I took you home.” Vecchio’s doing the mock gallant thing again, which feels a whole lot safer. If Lana and the girls weren’t watching them, Ray would give him the finger and things might be back to normal. 

“I’d better say goodbye first. Wait for me at the door?” 

“Sure.” Vecchio finally lets go of him, and Ray limps over to the table where Lana’s friends are gazing at him with ‘tell me everything’ written all over their faces. 

********************

 

They don’t talk much in the car. About half way to Ray’s place they’re stopped at a red light when Vecchio looks over at him with narrowed eyes.

“You feeling alright now?”

“Not exactly. Legs are itching, feet are sore and the wig’s a bitch - and that’s only the half of it,” Ray says. 

“I can believe it,” Vecchio laughs, but he pushes the Riv a little harder the rest of the way.

Eight months they’ve been working together, and Vecchio’s never been up to Ray’s apartment before. This time he doesn’t wait to be asked. 

“I can walk on my own,” Ray snaps, but once they’re at the top of the stairs he unlocks the door and lets Vecchio in first without questioning it.

“Beer’s in the fridge,” he says, waving an arm towards the kitchen. “Gotta get out of this fucking underwear before it kills me.” 

He leaves Vecchio to it and heads into the bedroom. The wig comes off first, the boots second and then the rest of it, each layer a bigger relief than the last. By the time he’s got himself into sweatpants and a soft black T shirt, he feels almost human again. 

He forgets the make-up until he catches his reflection on the way out of the room. Without the wig and dress it just looks theatrical, maybe a little slutty. He runs his fingers through his hair and decides his face can stay as it is, if only to piss Vecchio off. Another moment, and he picks up the feather boa, slings it round his neck, and wanders back into the living room. 

Vecchio’s in the kitchen. He’s taken off the grey jacket and hung it over a chair, and the sleeves of his dark lilac shirt are rolled up. His hands are in the sink, washing glasses. At least he’s opened the beers, two bottles all misted up and irresistible on the counter top.

“Jesus Christ, Kowalski,” Vecchio says without looking round. “You gotta learn to look after yourself. Your fridge is an international disaster zone. You ever eat a proper meal? Something healthy?”

“Who are you, my mother?” Ray says automatically, grabbing a beer. He’s trying not to remember Fraser in the kitchen the first time he came back here, saying much the same thing, only in Canadian. “You know my idea of health food is coffee without sugar.”

“You ever drink it that way?” Vecchio asks, drying his hands on a tea towel as he turns round. 

Ray grins at Vecchio’s double take when he sees the feathers. “Only if I’m desperate.” 

Vecchio sighs as he picks up the other bottle, but he comes through into the living area and parks himself on a chair. 

The first beer goes down so smoothly it hardly touches the sides. They talk about the club, the case, tossing the ideas around. The sniping’s low key, as much out of habit as anything else, and Ray could write the script for it himself. 

Around the end of the second bottle the conversation starts to run dry, but Vecchio shows no sign of leaving. Ray decides they need music, so he gets up and goes over to the stereo, runs his fingers across the rack of CD cases, trying to pick the perfect song for the mood. 

He’s got his back to the room, so it comes out of nowhere when Vecchio says, “You’re sexier than he was.”

Ray can’t move, certainly can’t turn round. He waits for the explanation that doesn’t come. “Could you please repeat that again - because I know I couldn't have heard it right the first time,” he says at last, slowly, surprised he can get the words out.

“Benny was more convincing as a woman. Good looking, too, if kind of sensible. But you? Huh.” Vecchio exhales, an odd sort of sound.

Ray’s still staring at the stereo, not sure if it’s anger or fear or something else that he’s feeling. “You trying to tell me you’re hot for Rachel?” he manages.

Vecchio laughs. “Rachel? No. You’d have to convince me she’s real, first, and there’s not much danger of that. Nobody could mistake you for a woman, Stanley.”

Ray’s pretty sure it’s anger, now. Whatever it is, he’s not about to back off. “So what exactly are you trying to say?”

He hears the chair creak and feet crossing the floor, but it’s still a shock when he turns to find Vecchio standing so close, and smiling, for Christ’s sake, like he has the faintest fucking clue what he’s doing.

“Just that tomorrow, I might not wait till the end of the night to ask you to dance.”

Jesus. “Vecchio, you’ve got to stop this. It’s totally fucked up.”

“Yeah, it is. All of it,” Vecchio agrees, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s right up in Ray’s personal space now, one hand on Ray’s hip and the other full of feathers, and his green eyes are serious above that weird knowing smile.

In a moment of perfect clarity, Ray realises that quite possibly it’s all been leading up to this: the fighting, the competition, the strange intensity of just knowing each other whether they like it or not, that freaky connection that’s their strength, that makes the partnership work. 

He stops analysing when Vecchio’s mouth covers his. 

Vecchio kisses him hard, forceful but not rough, like a man who knows what he wants. It’s a thousand kinds of wrong, and maybe that’s why it feels so damned good. But he’s still got to try to keep it together, even with his mouth opening all by itself and Vecchio’s tongue pushing in straight away like he’s got every right to be there.

Ray pulls his head back far enough to hit it on the shelf and gasps, “We can’t do this. Jesus, Vecchio, it’s so fucked up, it’s so wrong-”

“Oh, you think?” Vecchio says, laughing slightly, as his hand slides down between them and shapes itself over Ray’s cock, fingers tucked around his balls. He squeezes exactly hard enough, and then just holds on.

Ray stops trying to do anything but breathe. He can’t help it, he’s pushing forward into Vecchio’s hand, hanging onto bony shoulders and smearing scarlet lipstick over Vecchio’s stubble. 

Vecchio gets an arm around Ray’s back, pulling him in tight, and growls right into his ear, “You want us to stop this?” He shifts his hand, rubbing, kneading.

Ray’s groaning, “Yes. No. Oh fuck-” 

His mouth finds Vecchio’s again and his hips find the rhythm. Whatever his brain thinks, his body’s already on the downhill slide, and if he even knows what wrong is any more, he sure as hell doesn’t care.


End file.
